


Snow in Summer

by randomscribbles (BookwormOnATeaLeaf)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Universe, F/M, Family Fluff, Jon Snow is a Stark, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, POV Daenerys, POV Jon Snow, Post-GOT, Pregnancy, Prophecy, Queen Daenerys, post-S07E07
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-01 07:14:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12151431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookwormOnATeaLeaf/pseuds/randomscribbles
Summary: He would make that little dream come true. Give her the lemon tree right outside her window, and bring the spring and summer to her in heart of the winter. Perhaps it was the fortune of all who had carried her name, he thought, the fate of all Daenerys's, to receive a wonder of their world from the hands of their beloved. He would make such garden for his Daenerys. A token worthy of remembrance and a tale to be sung in great halls of many great lords for generations to come.





	Snow in Summer

**Author's Note:**

> This work is my very first in GoT/ASOIAF fandom. Took me some time to defeat my doubts and find the courage to post it. I you'll enjoy reading it. The events and references in this work are primarily based on the canon!book. I tried to patch it as well as I could as the series took the lead. he events are post S07E07, focusing purely on Jon & Dany's point of views with small references to other characters. 
> 
> I have never been for writing short chapters, if you are for reading one, I apologize beforehand because your up for a little long reading. The work has been divided into different sections, trying to capture moments between Jon and Dany. Please do tell how you found it. 
> 
> That said, I bid a quick bye and hit the post button!

**I**

There was snow.

Snow in middle of _summer_.

It would have been a warm day if it weren't the long winter.

He stood outside alone, hundred feet above the ground, by the parapet of the inner walls of Winterfell, unmindful to what went about him, unperturbed by the presence of sentries standing by the watch turrets. He could feel their curious gaze, see their whispered words through the wisp of their warm breath in the cold air. His face frozen still, like the many statues of the crypts, met the mid-morning’s biting chill without start, challenging anyone in his absolute silence to try disturb him. 

He was in foul mood,  _Aegon Targaryen_.

The intrepid few -brave enough to face the scalding cold- who came looking for him, only made it till a short distance away. They eyed him warily, debated with themselves a moment or two that if they should forgo with whatever whatnot they had in mind to trouble him with at that hour, and returned from the very path they had taken a short time before empty handed.

The snow trapped along the wall-walk was trampled and sloshed, turned to frozen brownish slivers of slippery ice and frozen dirt in the merciless frozen weather. They crunched and squelched under foot. Their sound grated his nerves every time someone came up looking for him. He was weary, both from standing there, and having his much needed solitude disturbed every now and then. He saw them all with unseeing eyes, and chose not to see them. He saw and did not saw Gendry’s hesitant gaze coupled with Arya’s dogged scowl, and Sansa’s disapproving look behind him a little after sunrise, and ignore them all.

If they dared come, he swore to himself after Sansa left, he’d…What? What would he do?

It wasn't their burden, or an offense to deserve such treatment. How could it be, when it was another he was troubled with.

No one came, luckily.

They knew well by then to waste time, when much better was sitting right behind them in the warm and damp enclosures of the Great Keep.

Like a wandering ghost, he went around, moments and hours apart, to the outer curtain walls, bailey, godswood, Great Keep, and back to the walls again, never delaying in a place. They eyed him restlessly. Aegon Targaryen... Jon Snow... The warden of the North. The unknown homeless Targaryen prince reared and molded in fashion of the Northmen. He had long made peace with who he was as they had. The somebody he was but did not want to be and the nobody he'd been and loathed to be. Cold was his constitution and ice his soul. Fire was what coursed through his veins. Fire, his father had passed down to him, his other father. Yet, he shivered viciously, under all that fine and thick layers of fur, boiled leather, woolen pants and jacket.

It was hard not to feel shunned. He was exaggerating, unwelcomed was a better word. Not that it was anything new to him. He had lived all his life with that identity: the bastard of Winterfell turned reluctant King in the North, then its warden and now, the prince consort. Old feelings were hard to forget, some had taken root deeply, blended with his blood, marred his soul. They slept quietly in the dark corners of his heart, waiting for their time to come, and when it came, they came with sole intention of haunting him –the restless soul.

The manner of dealing he’d received, he took harder this time, though there was no spite in it unlike before -not a bit. He understood, but was loath to give in to the bidding. Not that he had much choice.

He was no conventional lord to his people, or husband to his wife, so to speak. Had they not learned this until now? In his pursuit to fufill his duty as liege, he had broken many rules, and made many unsung new ones, some at a high price. From letting the wildlings go beyond the wall, to going south to meet a foreign queen and swearing fealty to her and her cause, to braving the odds and taking a Queen for lover, and to actually mustering the courage and taking that very Queen to wife. No one dared do things he did, yet they had the courage to resist and refuse him in matters that were a great concern to him.

His hand clenched and unclenched around Longclaw’s hilt hanging by his side. His dark eyes stared into the distance, to the fine carpet of thick snow running as far as eyes could see. He could barely see though, the air was veiled behind thick curtain of snow falling in torrents in what would have been a pleasant summer day. There was no wind, just a tide of cold air.

The snow was knee deep, pristine and smooth on the fields beyond the wall. Pleasant at first to course through, fatally cold when its wet touch seeped through the clothes and reached the skin. The scalding white of it was the main source of light against the dark skies that were always tinged with dreary shades of indigo and ash. They were not much different, the nights and days. It bothered him and his kinfolk so little. They had lived their lives to brave the bitterness of cold and anticipate such bleak days while the world slept and eluded its arrival.

He puffed a warm cloud of moist air into the chilled air, blinking against the downy snowflakes weighing down on his lashes. His hair was peppered with snow and his face wet with their cold gentle touch.

It could be a fine day, he thought.

His eyes glued to a large heap of snow, a hilltop that was not there before, far distance away from the large camp spreading around the massive structure of Winterfell by the edge of Wolfswood.

Rhaegal, he thought.

The land beside him where its brother had been lying upon was now bare, warmer and covered with thinner layer of snow. The black beast had roused and soared high at dawn, when the light was barely in the sky, rattling the camp and castle residents with its distressed shriek after many days of deep slumber. It had flown for hours earlier, floating in furious circles in the skies arching above Winterfell. Round and round it went, its’ deafening screams unforgiving, calling out to its mother who was not returning its calls. It had heard her pain. The terror was what took the lands, bathe the dense stone walls, and stilled the hearts in Winterfell.

They had called out to him, seeking his aid -her men. Not his. The only one they thought, who could pacify the beast when its mother could not. And he had come, though he did not want to at the time, marching to the outer walls of the castle looking up into the skies, summoning it, the magnificent beast, to answer to the last son of the dragon riders.

It had sensed him -blood of her blood- the beat of the familiar heart and his presence. It took its time haughtily like the proud arrogant beast it was. It had every right to be, he thought, watching it plummet like black death with earsplitting shrill from high above the skies, landing on earth that was nothing to beings like him, snarling at and threatening one man it could not harm. He had stared at it with the same northern grim air and glum eyes –the only mask he only knew how to wear, challenging the magnificent beast in his absolute silence to misbehave. The gust of its hot moist breath, the stink of rotten flesh and bone form deep within its bowels, and threat of fire had affected him not.

“She cannot come!” He had uttered resolutely.

And the beast wailed, coiling.

It tried again with threat of fire, and ice in his eyes was all it received as answer.

The walls were keeping her away, protected -his beloved.

When the threat did not work, it was nuzzle that came begging, the burning of light in the reptilian eyes that could never grow warm except when its owner breathed fire.

“She cannot come” He repeated himself this time gentler, more somber. And it was gone, fluttering its large wings furiously, unsettling all that were down on earth on its way back to the skies.

Hurt just like him, it withdrew.

Pained just like him, it flew.

And he thought he heard the sound of thousand caged breaths released. It didn't matter how they hurt, her beloved ones, her mate and her Children. She never wanted her people live in fear.

His eyes softened at the look of the undisturbed heap of snow. It was awake, he knew, concealed so perfectly beneath a thick blanket of fleecy snow. Rhaegal. The one she had named after the brother she never knew. The gentle one that he was told, she had to cage in the dark for what it was long ago. One that would not fight unless it had to. It sooner had solitude than be there in a world it could not understand, and for that he loved the beast more.

He closed his eyes briefly.

“ _You cannot enter, my lord!_ ” Her handmaiden had told him, studying his face cautiously, after he had insisted to see her. Glaring had not worked; his authority in that house had not worked; his message to her to let him in had not worked.

Her cries had been heart wrenching.

“ _It is not a place and time for you to be._ ” He couldn't remember if those were maester Wolken or Sansa’s words. Their eyes chorused the same message to him at that hour. He was not wanted there.

“ _She has not given leave to anyone to enter the chamber._ ” was what Missandei told him.

It was what she wished, the girl told him.

How could she, he thought, when all he heard was her wail, long and pained, breaking through the heavy walls of his home. He did not believe those were her words. It had spurred his anger, filling his mouth with bitterness he had not felt in long time.

She was crying.

The snow shifted and slid down the hip a little.

A howl echoed in the chilled summer air.

“ _Blood of my blood._ ” He repeated to himself, the words she had taught him, recalling the rose of her cheeks in the frozen air and the heat in the violet of her eyes. She carried the spring in her.

“Dany” Her name was a chant. He called out to her, praying. It’s what she wanted him to call her when he loved her. Thoughts of her, in every waking hour of his day, was loving her.

They had not given him a chance to see her, and worse, she had not asked for him. He knew she was aware of his arrival, if not, of his presence behind the doors they had shut to his face. All they said was that there were troubles and long hours of pain she had endured. It was not her first time to be heavy with child, but first to experience a pain that was nothing to his ears but tales. All he knew was that it hurt, and took if fate decided. Hers was not going to be an easy one, he had heard them whispering. Her constitution was small and her strength to carry on much uncertain. Her babe was delaying and she, too weak to endure the prolonged childbirth.

No! No…no…no…no…no

Behind the blanket of his closed eyes, he began hunting in the shadows of his mind, conjuring memories of every woman he knew who had once been there.

There was Dalla, Mance’s wife, who lost her life at childbirth. His mother and hers, who had both given their lives while bringing forth one. But there was also Gilly, who had given birth to one and nursed two at her breast. There was Catelyn Stark, who had given five to her lord husband. And for once, he prayed to gods to grant him Ned Stark’s good fortune in this, to have his wife give him children that saw many winters and springs to come. Yes! It’s what he wanted. Catelyn’s strength in his wife, though the woman had hated him for who he was as long as she lived. It was only in the shadows and dark that he always recalled her memories. This was no different, the hour and place.

A life they had made in the long cold nights they had spent together. Life she had always longed to make but was falsely told she could not -never. She was swelled with life the last time he saw her standing, arching her petite frame against the weight of a child many believed bore the northern spirit. She let him feel the babe, impatient to bring it to that world, all to see the light in his eyes when they placed him in his arms.

A boy he had always wanted to have and a boy she was determined to give him. She wanted a daughter, but this time she gave in to his wish, she said! Not that they had a choice. It did not matter to him, he realized, as she drew closer to the end of her expectancy. Her happiness was what he wanted. Boy or girl, one or the other, would make her happy. She always wanted to be a mother.

He had watched her in silence, how indecision and qualm took the better of her. An unpleasant company she had been to a lot lately, prickly and unguarded, impetuous more than ever. The unsolicited words of advice, echoed in whispers in the cold chambers of Winterfell, had not been taken well by her. She could hardly veil it, from him of all the folk. The trepidation behind the sublime mask for the child she so wanted, and every night lived in fear of losing it again, for it to be different, and for the world it was coming to. The thought of the Night King and the walking dead was a horror to any man, but more to a mother who was nurturing the future with her flesh and blood. Every single moment was joy and agony.

It will be over soon, he’d think, sitting away from her, watching her fair face from the shadows of the Great Hall, seeking her when she was alone, compelling her to receive him when she crept into her own world, all so she’d remember over-and-over again that he was and would be there in her darkest hour. That he'd die first, before anything befell on his Queen. She’d take refuge in his arms helplessly, when there was no other corner left for her to escape from her own fears.

They were lost, him and her. Children inching away all their lives from misfortunes that were never their making, and facing many greater ones laden to see.

He loved her. It was all that was clear to him. He’d let his passion outdo him. It was all fire he saw in the darkness, making him take her and let it consume him, when she, with all her loveliness, titillated his ego and tested his patience with her fiery attitude, when she was her wayward self and refused to rein her will, and when the longing looks she received went beyond his liking. He was mortal more than anything else, overcome by an odd diffidence and possessiveness with all that involved her. He had never owned something so precious in life. He had never owned anything in life. Whatever he owned, life had taken away or denied from him. She and the life he had with her were the only true things he had.

He was selfish when it came to her. He did not want to give, or share.

He would seek her out of need, when he had spent many days apart from her. When his flesh ached for a touch of her flesh, overcome by a need so unquenchable he never thought it existed. He would go to her unabashedly, straight from the entrance to her chamber, open with what he wanted. It was a little thing he had learned. How to be at ease with the need of flesh, and never fear or shun the pleasure of it. Old habits were hard to forget. It was with her that he was learning to forget a little of himself and the person he used to be. She received him with a sweet frown when he came to her unexpectedly, taking him to the only place she knew was home to him. When it was over, all he saw was a simple man and a woman tangled in a knot of sweaty limbs, all burned out. There was no Aegon Targaryen, Jon Snow, or Daenerys Stormborn there.

Nothing, but Jon and Dany.

There was one thing he didn't take her for. Duty.

It was not amongst the options. He loathed the word in the privacy of their chamber. It was one place that would never define him or the life he shared with her. The child came because it was wanted, he took her to wife because he wanted, he took her the first time and marked her his, all because he wanted. They were lovers before being mates. 

When they made their child, there was passion and need, so much love one could never measure, and comfort they sought so eagerly in one another. Their duty though, to the realm and people was fulfilled.

“My lord!” He heard the voice he was waiting for at last.

Missandei.

The sky was dark when she came, just like when she told him the Queen was in labor. Not that it was ever light. It never was. The long night and winter was all they had.

Snow in middle of summer.

He flinched and braced himself from within without turning.

“What news do you bring?” His voice was gruff, marred with traces of anger from earlier that day. He was surprised to hear it at last, as though hearing himself for the first time.

“It is over.” He heard her calm voice like chirp of a bird on a fine spring day.

“And?” His eyes were as cold as shards of ice.

“A boy she has given you.”

“My wife?”

“She is well, my lord.”

Slowly, he released a caged breath he did not know he’d been holding, relearning how to breathe all over again. And as he did it, he let the news sink in bit-by-bit and defeat the cold he had not noticed had overcome him.

His mind flew to the chamber where she was resting, to the very bed they shared, and was now the birthplace of his firstborn.

He smiled at last with much difficulty, small and barely seen. His face was numb from cold.

She was holding now at her bosom the gift she had promised to give him.

“Has she called for me?” It was what he wanted to hear.

He had wanted to be wanted all his life, but by her more than anyone else.

He loved her desperately.

“No”

He turned to look at her at last, a frown creasing his young face.

“She wants you there.” Missandei smiled knowingly, watching the creases vanish from his face.

He moved in haste, taking the slippery track and the narrow stairs to the courtyard, and marched with what was left of his strength toward the Great Keep without waiting to see if she was following him or not.

**II**

She watched him through half-hooded eyes, trancing in and out of sleep she could barely fight. Everything was blurred out behind a curtain of haze that refused to let go. She wanted to see him. To run her fingers over the frozen skin that never flinched in the cold. She had missed him dearly, more than any other time.

The doors and windows had been sealed shut. She had been shivering fiercely against herself in the stifling heat trapped in confines of her bedchamber. Her jaw had been chattering, but her body covered with a thick sheen of sweat. It had been cruel and numbing, the time and pain. It was the thoughts of him that had given her strength.

The very chamber was overcome by comforting darkness, and silence that was so impossible not a long time ago. With him there it was home, and all else naught but a memory, the pain and distress. Things, she knew, she’d relive in future once again. She was his queen and his wife, and children she would give him to strengthen his line. For now, she would be contented with one.

All she succeeded, when she relieved herself of the knot of pain, was to ask if it was fine. Her heart was beating in her throat. It was all silent, deafening and stretched. “What is it?” Her voice trembled in midst of barely contained tears. Her child was silent. “It is a boy” Maester Wolkan said. It’s not what she wanted to know. She almost sat up in an attempt to see him for herself, but the curled and warm body of her babe, placed at her breast stopped her short.

She moaned and propped against the feathered pillows with her babe at her chest.

The maester smiled.

Quavering slender fingers ran over the little body lovingly, searching every single inch with meticulousness mysterious even to her. She never thought such tenderness was possible in her. No scales, no tails, no horns, nothing beastly. It was a beautiful innocent babe she had given birth. Ten fingers and ten toes she counted; a little nose; a pout mouth eager to suck; two eyes that refused to open; and skin that was flushed red. She watched his little chest with much relief as it rose and fell in measure to take the air greedily. “Hello little one!” Tears welled her eyes. His angry face softened at the smell of her skin and the beat of her heart. It was all he knew and had comforted him. It squealed so helplessly, her babe. And she cried hard and vehemently, wishing for his father to come at once.

“Jon” She had whispered hoarsely through cracked lips. There was not much voice left after all the wretched wailing.

Her glazed eyes found Missandei, and she took her request in silence.

He was there before long, covered with layers of dark fur and powdered with snow, still geared and armed from his journey home. His face was dark and skin beaten red by the burning talons of the extreme cold. He brought the cold and ice she had come to love so dearly.

It was the Warden of the North who entered her chamber at that hour, not Jon Snow. He was crossed and his scowl deep, commanded everyone to leave at once. There was no patience left in him.

His ravenous mouth sought hers wildly, when it was only him and her in that chamber, telling her how displeased he was. Cold lips nibbled and tasted the salt of her tears greedily, giving her little chance to breathe against the sweet chastise. He was feverish behind the frozen mask, his touch scorching on her skin. He marked her and his right quickly, like the direwolf that he was, taking and claiming what was his: the woman and the child.

I love you, his mouth and eyes said behind the imperious gaze, one that was not a Stark at all. His down-turned lips and helpless eyes demanded an answer. And she gave it with all the grace she could muster, presenting his son to him. Flesh of your flesh, blood of your blood, it is yours, and I love you, she told him through worn face, and burning violet eyes. The feeling was utterly raw and primal, and she, so consumed by the look of him trying to hold the babe. It is so small, his eyes spoke words his mouth could not articulate, staring with awe at the little life squirming between his palms. His breath and hands shook wildly. The brusque and brute man was gone in a second. A timorous man was what she found before her. Swords and spears, and a Night King he faced so boldly, yet he was so shaken from holding his own son.

She chuckled weakly and he scowled in return. She let go and he held on to the little life they had made. And for the first time, she saw that he had forgotten her, lost himself in the little dark eyes that tore open in time to look at him. Eyes that were still deciding for a color between mother and father.

So he favored his father, she thought and closed her eyes at last.

**III**

He sat for a long time in corner of the room, a little away from the bed, holding the babe like a delicate piece of porcelain figure in his arms; watching him in wonder against the dim gold light of the candle light.

“Jon Snow” She murmured.

His eyes rose to meet hers, lost and enthralled. They kept her in their dark depth, and made love to her in stillness of the night for a miniscule second as long as eternity.

Dressed in all that rich furs, he was unpeeled before her eyes. It was the boy she found sitting before her, the lonesome and timid one. The innocent teenage boy, who donned the black once, swore never to father a child for he could not see any better fortune for himself. One who let himself many a time dream and wish covertly of the impossible and deny the odds over-and-over. And her heart broke for him many times over, wondering what was taking place in his heart now that he had found it realized.

How does it feel, Jon Snow? She blinked away her tears.

He is beautiful, his eyes said to her. Don’t distract me, they also said to her, I am a little busy here. His lips twitched upward into what she knew was his smile. She yearned to taste them again. Almost thirsty. Not now, she reminded herself. She had someone who was rivaling for his attention at the moment. She gave in. She would have to share this man from now on.

His eyes went back to the little face between the towels searching, like how any new father would. She knew what was going in his mind. This brave, humble, and honest man. He was seeking her and himself in the little stranger that was part of him.

He wanted to know if he was like him or her.

It's too early my love, she wanted to tell him.

He would not listen for now. Unlike her, it was his first time to feel such way. He was young and strong, and this would not be the last time to experience such feelings, surely.

She let the sleep take her once again, giving him the time to get accustomed to the feelings.

**IV**

She roused sometime past midnight, by the presence of a white hallow passing by her bed, sniffing and searching the sheets keenly. It carried the scent of cold and snow like its' master. It came in and out at will, at dark more than light, drifting in the shadows of the courtyards and halls, too menacing and great for anyone to draw near.

They had left the door ajar, to let the air blow in and remove the scent. The smell of blood was strong.

She blinked few times rapidly, staring into the ruby eyes. Ghost. It creeped closer to smell her. She moaned when it licked and nuzzled against her hand. It wouldn’t harm her, as her Children did not harm her mate. He had fed, she noticed. Bloated and full from the day’s hunt. She saw him days at a time, but almost always when Jon returned to Winterfell. It never left the place, Jon had told her. It had a lady to watch when he was not around, he said with a smile one morning when he was heading north.

It padded across the chamber to his master. From her place, snug between thick layers of skin, she watched her husband quietly, as he leaned forward in time to meet the direwolf.

She held her breath and whimpered weakly. “Jon”

“Hush!” He said without looking at her and watched in silence as the beast hulked over his form and went for the bundle, sniffing and snorting. Sitting there, he was as tall as the beast, its sight frightening to any living being. It took its time curiously, learning the little no-name prince's scent. It raised its head at last and stared at its master ponderously. “It’s my boy.” Jon said to the living embodiment of his House.

The beast moved forward again, stroking the bundle with its muzzle. Its howl then burned and broke the calm of the night. It was chilling and loud. A welcome, the queen and her consort knew, to the dragon prince into the House of his forefathers. He would be a Stark as he would be a Targaryen, like his father. How many times they had gone through this, him and her. So many nights. And now that the time had come, she saw it only fitting for the child to take his rightful place in the House of the old Kings of the North.

The babe remained unresponsive and fast asleep. His father smiled languidly, like a little boy who'd been given a gift.

“He will be a better company to you than I am!” He offered to share his new friend like any boy did with his pet.

The direwolf seemed to agree. Teasingly, it licked the hand that was holding the little prince.

“Watch over him.” Jon said and rose to his feet at last, placing the babe in the crib near the bed. The direwolf came to rest at the foot of the crib instantly. No more needed be said. It would not move or be parted from the child. The nurses would have trouble come morning, she thought tiredly.

The troubles you make, Jon Snow.

Her husband disrobed in silence, aware she was awake and watching, and slipped between the covers at last. His hands and feet snaked their way to seek her sore body, and pulled her flushed against his naked form a little roughly. He was not happy with what they did to him earlier by her request and had not forgotten. We will talk later, the kiss he left on her shoulder blade said. He was warm, and she contented with him, the wolf, and her babe all in the room.

He fell asleep before she did, all consumed and exhausted.

**V**

They stared at each other. A pair violets as bright as amethyst and greys as dark as onyx.

She looked ethereal resting against the grey stones. Her cheeks were flushed against the warm steam emitting from the surface of the hot spring. The platinum locks, unbraided and loose, stuck in wet silver tendrils around her rosen cheeks and ran in thick coils over her shoulders into the inviting warm waters. She looked splendid and regal even wearing nothing.

She leaned her head back against the soft coat of the direwolf sitting by the edge of the spring over the warm granite stones, giving him a full view of the neck that needed tasting. The wolf was still, looking equally majestic from its place. Its eyes, red as blood, peered at him curiously, wondering if he’d make a move to near the Queen. The hidden fangs, white and sharp as death, would tear throats and flesh apart in her defense if anyone else creeped on her in such fashion. And he wondered, for a fraction of a second, if it was a woman of Stark he was seeing or the last daughter of Valyria. She took the customs of his kin quickly; as she had done it in the realms she had conquered back in Essos. A Khaleesi she was to the Dothraki, a queen at the slavers bay and the seven Kingdoms, and apparently a she-wolf of Winterfell at the present.

Ghost purred against her, welcoming the hand that went up to tame and caress its side leisurely. It rest its' head over outstretched paws listlessly and shut the red blood eyes.

His eyes ran across the white length of arms and bust that came to his view fully. His mouth went dry at the sight of her.

There was another woman he had met at the hot springs a life time ago. She was kissed by fire. The woman before him was nothing like her. She was the fire. And the love he had for her was unparalleled. He owned her and yet she was a little beyond his grasp, always free.

His eyes, much against his will, from the other side of the spring, traced hot scorching lines over the pale lips, perfect square of jawline, little chin, pillar of neck, and full bust that went hiding from his view half way beneath the glimmering waters. The vixen! Even now, she was fighting and refusing to let him go.

This time, this place, this state, she had chosen deliberately to show the things he was leaving behind, even for a little while.

He had been away at north for weeks, returned by fortnight and was leaving again in an hour. She was not pleased, wanting him near. It was hard to persuade him, when his mind was so firmly set. It set her teeth on edge. His visit had been unexpected and his presence passing within the halls. It was at the camps he spent most of his time, with men he would take to north. Men who joined them days and weeks apart in small or large hosts, braving the unknown and peril that were waiting for them by the edge of the half-standing half-fallen wall.

A wall they had to restore, an army of dead to fight and fend off, and realm to protect.

He had to go.

_“I will be with you, this time!” She had Drogon._

_“I will not leave my son behind without a mother.” He instantly had forbade it days ago. His word was final, and challenged her in his all well-known absolute silence to defy him. He didn’t give a damn if she was his Queen. “No!” Nothing could ever measure the love Jon Snow had for his infant son._

_It was what Catelyn Stark did long ago, he declared, leaving her nest, for her son and a war, believing it was protected. He'd die than see that day come again._

_She had stared at his fine face from the other side of the room. It was her husband who was speaking at that hour in that war room, not the warden who had bent the knee. His words, and the many ayes that resonated in the gloom of the war room in his support, had blazed her anger. Greywrom was quiet as ever and Missandei seemed hesitant this time. Tyrion and Jorah, she did not want to consider. She felt betrayed by the mere look of their faces. She had dismissed them all of them before long, irked and upset, and waited another day weighing her options. She didn’t want to leave him alone in this. She didn’t want to be left behind. It was their war, her men, her people, and him._

_Sansa. Their little boy would be safe with her. She made a fine guardian and protector as she had been for little Robert Arryn. The North would rise in the little prince's defense and shield him from any threats coming from South. North was the only family they -she- had. She needed him, his support and consent. She would not be parted from him –not again. It was her advisor who spoke in her stead, and made known to him of her decision at last. Jon Snow, no, Aegon Targaryen, almost conceded by the fortnight -so cold, unimpressed, and loath._

_She didn’t grant the prince consort audience until he yielded. And he did. Only…_

From her place by the edge of the spring, she caught his eyes roaming at will over her body, and ensnared them when they came back up to study her face. The heat was evident in his eyes. She loved the black abyss in their depth. It made her squirm against herself under the waters. She bit her lip and almost heard him catch his breath.

He had fucked her senseless for hours before the light broke the sky, after she refused to take him to bed for nights since his arrival. Their bed was still warm and held the scent of the heated night they had spent together between the sheets.

_“When were you going to tell me?” He had whispered against her ear hotly hours ago, running his lips over her nape and bare shoulders hungrily, and rocking her body with all his might as she buried her face in the pillow in efforts to stifle her moans._

_Gods she had missed him. She could smell herself, her excitement and the dampness that had her inner thighs slick and ready for him._

_He rode her without reserve, erect and so hard to please. He was holding on well, driven by the frustration he had from her. His hand drew roughly over her neck and went to thumb the tender breasts. She mewled into the pillow helplessly and he growled behind her ear._

_“Gently!” the Queen asked, her voice muffled by the feathered pillow._

_Their little boy was sleeping in the adjoining chamber, and she was worried sick he would rouse and fuss._

_His thumb and fore finger pinched and run in circles around the erected nubs as his hand went to palm the soft flesh. He knew she was sensitive._

_“I cannot let you go now!” He whispered a little gentler, pulling out altogether to sheath himself fully into her body instantly. She whimpered in his arms, almost sobbing. It was a slip on her part. She cursed the sweet pleasure and the weakness she had when it came to him._

_She loved him madly._

_He spooned her tighter to him, trying to catch a look of her lovely face. She was flushed and barely breathing against his chest. His hand let go of her breast and took a leisured journey from her side to her pelvis and between her legs. He knew that body, every single curve and plain of that flesh. Nothing missed his attention when they were in the bed._

_He did not need maesters to tell him what was plain before his eyes._

_She was pregnant._

_His hand rest over the swell above the juncture of her legs._

_The revelation tickled his nerves and made his mind go reeling. Their babe in the crib had not seen his first nameday and here she was heavy again with another child, being defiant altogether and wanting to join him. He would have fallen for her little trick if she had not taken him to bed on the last night. How far she was into her expectancy, he wondered. Two moons? Three? There were no signs when he left her for the north the last time._

_“Daenerys.” He kissed her cheek lovingly. “Hear me…” He knew, he was right to deny her._

_He would never give his consent. Not after this._

_She melt against his chest and surrendered._

_“I will be back soon…” He whispered feeling himself drawing close. She raised her face and ran her hand behind her to keep his hip in place against hers. Her gasps filled the room wildly. She was near, he felt it._

_The sound in her ears chimed and light began dancing before her eyes._

_“Jon” She moaned. He pounded her deeply without stop, cupping her mouth with his hand to repress a cry that left her chest at last. Her teeth dug into the flesh of his palm hardly. He growled and eyed the half open door to the little nursery she had made next to bedchamber. There were no sounds. The little prince was asleep._

_Her nail dug into flesh of his buttocks and pulled him tighter to her. Her toes curled uncontrollably and her muscles flexed around his member in rapid tight spasms._

_She did not hear his next words and promise to her._

_He came hot and with vigor as always. Filling her completely and staining her thighs with his essence as he withdrew. He would start again shortly, she knew, when he found himself collected enough and she fully recovered. He would be gentler after this, back to being the noble lover she knew, especially now that he had confirmed there was another she was carrying._

_The news of her pregnancy had been no surprise to her. By the time he began taking her again, she had begun seeing her moon blood. It was a matter of time before his seed took again. Her babe was teething, less in need of her nursing, and more curious with solid rations fed to him._

_She was told it would be easier to conceive after the first and to take caution. Why should she, she had thought. It’s his children she wanted to carry._

_Jon Snow was going to be a father again._

He walked carefully by the edge of the spring, to the heap of furs where his little son was lying down near his mother and the pet wolf. He kneeled and picked him up gently. The boy cooed and squirmed in his hold.

His mother stared up at the babe from her place fondly. She watched quietly as his father came to bid him farewell. It was bittersweet.

The babe wiggled his legs in the air and chewed on his little fists impatiently. He would find him a pet wolf, a cub preferably, Jon decided, looking at his son’s blue grey eyes and silver hair. He was still a Stark in many ways. A Targaryen prince born in the North on a snowy day.

She stood up at last impatiently, letting the water splash and revert into the spring, unmindful of the cold that came gnawing at her skin. His hand was about her waist in a flash.

“I will be home soon.” He murmured, and took her mouth fervently.

Rebellious tears stung her eyes. She drew his hand to her womb. “You will not leave again, upon return.” She said with finality. “Not even after I have birthed this child. Never again! You are the Warden of the North, and will take your seat where it is. My children will have their father, as they will have their mother by their side. Promise me, Jon!”

His lips let go of the pale ones. “I promise” His voice was gruff and his face much ordealed. He didn't want to leave her. His family.

He would take them to Dragonstone, he thought. The first seat of their forefathers. That would be a little after he returned, when she delivered her second. Oh yes, the second too, would be born on the lands of the North, but at a time when it could have been spring.

He passed his son to his wife. “He is yours for now, love him all and while you can, before he will be mine to rear.” He would take the little prince when the time came, as Ned Stark did to him, Robb, and Bran, to teach him the way of valour. “You will have another to hold and comfort you my Queen. A little daughter perhaps, to keep your company and delight your soul.”

She shook her head and smiled.

He kissed her once again and let go at last. They never said farewells. It was not for them, the last of Targaryens.

He walked away on the snow resolutely. 

For now he had a world to build and many better morrows to make certain. Morrows that was hers and their people.

He would dream of spring, her smile, and the life he was going to have when the long nights and winter finally gave away.

He had a home to go back to, and he would not fail returning to it, no matter what.

**VI**

“Seven hells!” He muttered under his breath in the chilled air, reining in his destrier somewhere out of the column of the foot soldiers marching down the Kingsroad.

“It seems they have little intentions of concealing your arrival.” Ser Davos said, riding beside him, looking at the same direction. “So much for the surprise.”

His eyes studied the skies of Winterfell, where the two Dragons had flown ahead and were soaring gleefully over the broken tower and perimeters of the castle. He was never a man to bring forth such expressions, but could hardly contain a smile that went creeping along his lips. They could be ingenuous and spirited, if one got to know them, which was actually impossible before anyone turned to ashes while attempting to take as much as a step close. Drogon brought joy to their mother, but Rhaegal an exhilaration of different kind. The presence of the emerald beast heralded the appearance of its rider, the one their mother loved beyond anything. He could guess what was taking place at that hour inside the castle.

They heard their joyous screech from leagues away.

“Well, I guess it will be a feast that will be waiting for us upon arrival. That’s the good part” Ser Davos said hopefully. “I miss a proper meal.”

Jon shook his head. “I miss that too, it will be questions I will be served with first, before I get a taste of the real meal.” He said pointedly and galloped his way back to the head of the column.

Daenerys would be demanding answers about his sudden arrival and much delayed return and, of course, detailed and first hand news of what was taking place far north. She would not give him a breath of respite until he had satisfied all her questions and perhaps many other things.

Behind the rigid frozen mask, there was a heart beating with excitement. And he knew, for sure, it was taking place in the heart of the woman waiting for him inside the warm halls of Winterfell. She could be out now, despite her state, he imagined, surveying the road and walking the length of inner walls rampart in search of them. That was very much who and how Daenerys Stormborn was.

He missed her, his queen, and his little boy.

Three moons they had been apart, and three moons he had to repay her. She would keep him in her sweet grasp, refusing to let go this time. He had made a promise, which he was determined to uphold.

He closed his eyes briefly, taking in the brisk air.

It was close, as the winter had been once. It would take a bit longer but it would come. He had spotted little patches of brown along the road, playing peekaboo with the journeymen, tainting the perfect white with dark stains that were more than a welcome to their eyes. They would disappear beneath thick layers of snow, fading as quick as they had appeared. Their presence, even for a briefest of time, brought news of different kind.

Spring was coming. It would take time. A year… another year… and perhaps another… but it would come, nonetheless. The cold could not keep against its warm touch. The army of the death, the cold, the Others, and all that was beyond living could go to the bowels of the seven hells. The spring was coming and he let himself dream of better days.

Daenerys.

She had turned his long nights into spring of its own. He wondered how he endured the previous winter without her. It would be another she would be adding to warm his days, and maybe another, gods knew, before spring truly came. He was young, so was she. It's children he wanted, he realized. Brothers and sisters for his little boy. Little Brans, Aryas, and Rickons to tail after him and fuss and brawl. Daenerys wanted no less, he knew. She wanted this more than him. 

He still had a war to win, defend life needed enduring, and morrows to ensure until the warm touched the earth at last.

Until then, he'd live and let himself live, and look ahead to the home waiting for him at the end of the road. Home he never thought he’d have, wife he never thought he'd take, and children he never thought he'd father.

“What’s keeping you?” Ser Davos’s voice broke his reveries some time later.

“Lemon trees!” The warden of the North breathed in defeat.

The old man raised an eyebrow. “Lemon trees?!”

Jon shook his head. “She loves lemon trees.”

“They don’t come in full bloom till spring.”

“I’ll bring the spring to her.” Jon said, remembering the dream she had shared with him in the many nights they had spent together.

The House with the red door and the lemon tree right outside her window. A little girl’s dream.

He would make that little dream come true, give her the lemon tree right outside her window, and bring the spring and summer to her in heart of winter. He would make the impossible happen, all because she made the impossible happen for him.

Perhaps it was the fortune of all who had carried her name, he thought. The fate of all the Daenerys's; to receive a wonder of their world from the hands of their beloved. There was another Daenerys long ago, way down in the South, whose marriage united two great houses of Westeros, and left a wonder that lived until then. The Water Gardens of Dorne: a little oasis at the heart of desert sands. A gift from Targaryen princess’s husband, Prince Maron Martell, to his beloved wife.

He would make such garden for his Daenerys. A lemon orchard in heart frozen lands of the North. A token worthy of remembrance and a tale to be sung in great halls of many great lords for generations to come.

 


End file.
